


Aftermath

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [42]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Justin Taylor, Post-Series, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:52:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1988829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bomb blasts and bashings are not things that just vanish from your consciousness. They're more insidious than that."</p><p>Years after the fact, Brian and Justin are still struggling to contend with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

It comes from nowhere and it comes all at once.

I wake up with a perfect storm crashing to life beside me. Brian has woken abruptly from what I can only guess was a nightmare. Gasping roughly, he bolts upright, his body rigid. He curses violently, furiously. The fog of sleep is ripped away from me. He reaches for me, his breath sawing in and out, his eyes wild. I rush into his arms, slide into his lap, and let him embrace me tightly. It hurts a little, but I let him keep me in this crushing embrace. He needs this, I know he does. I know from the way his arms have locked around me, the way his body is shaking slightly against mine, the way his breathing is harsh and strained. The fear he must be feeling is contagious. I feel it worm its way through me as he trembles against me.

"What was it?" I ask, managing to pull back a fraction so I can look at him.

Brian grimaces, his eyes falling shut, but not before I catch a glimpse of all the pain residing there. "All of it."

 _All of it._ I remember the first time he said those words; it was when he was still living in Pittsburgh and I was alone here in New York. He called me up in the middle of the night and asked me if I ever thought about Babylon, about the explosion. I admitted I did, sometimes; there were nightmares that were filled with endless bomb blasts, streams of blinding light and deafening screams, then nothing but deathly silence and darkness, darkness, darkness, and the overwhelming scent of thick, poisonous smoke. I asked him if he did, and he said,  _It's not just Babylon, it's all of it. I run to find you and you're lying there with..._ with what? After excruciating silence on his part, Brian reluctantly admitted,  _with your head bashed in._

He has nightmares about prom night and nightmares about Babylon, and that's bad enough. That's a fate I've also been assigned, that I have to live with constantly, and it's one that I wouldn't wish on anyone. But to dream about both? To envision the two nights clashing together? I can't say it's ever happened to me, but Brian has experienced this horror several times over. Once while we were apart, and twice here in New York. Tonight brings the total to four. Four excruciating visions of violence, with two different traumas bleeding together into one.

I hold him close, my heart aching deep inside my chest, so painful that I'm flooded with agony. It is, probably, only a fraction of what Brian is feeling.

Jo once told me that, when in the midst of panic, to try and focus on remaining present. To find something, anything, to tether me to reality. I woke up three weeks ago in a cold sweat, my limbs like jelly, my mind clouded with terror. I focused on Brian - the grasp of his hands on my hips, the soft brush of his lips, how his chest pressed warmly and solidly against mine. How I could feel his heartbeat. How, when he grabbed my wrist, I knew he was feeling for my pulse. How this was all proof that I was alive, that I was safe.

_Keep him present,_ a voice urges me, from deep inside. I press my lips to his cheek in a tender kiss, then whisper, "Breathe."

He sucks in a ragged breath. I take his hand and guide it to rest over my heart. Brian closes his eyes and rests his head on my shoulder. His hand on my heart, my hand covering his, we sit tangled together and surrounded by silence. I run my fingers over his, feeling their length. I follow the curving valley between his thumb and index finger. I stroke the creased skin covering his knuckles and brush my fingertips over the soft hairs gathered around his wrist. I soak up the solid warmth of his hand, finding strength and comfort there. I hope that my touch is bringing calm to him in the same way his touch brings calm to me. It seems to help a little. Every so often, I have to remind him to breathe, and breathe slowly. As his breathing settles, I run my hand through his hair and whisper, "I'm right here."

I'm not lying on cold pavement, flesh bruised, brains battered, bleeding out. I'm not crushed under rubble and wreckage at Babylon. I am here, right here, in our bed, in our home, in his lap, in his arms, with my heart beating. We are safe and sound.

Jo also once told me that I will probably live with this forever. I refused to believe it at the time. I asked her, desperately, when the aftermath was going to end. She said there was no telling if it ever would - that bomb blasts and bashings are not things that just vanish from your consciousness. They're more insidious than that. Such horrific memories can't be made to disappear, they can only be managed. I was angry for days, _weeks,_  afterwards, hating her for not delivering a cure, hating myself for not knowing how to find one on my own, hating the people who hurt me and stole things from me and replaced those stolen things with doubt and dread and despair.

But then, eventually, I found comfort in her words. Now, instead of waiting for the aftermath to end, I focus on accepting it as something that might always be here. I seek out ways to make living with it easier. I'm getting better at that, and so is Brian. We're getting better at it together.

I might wake up tomorrow in a panic after dreaming of pain and fear. I might find myself thrown from nightmare to reality with a scream tearing from my throat, with tears pouring, with the past threatening to swallow me whole. But it won't. I won't let it. And I won't let it devour Brian, either.

I will -  _we_ will - focus on the present and on each other. Right now, his hand is placed securely over my beating heart. I am holding it there, keeping him close, reminding him of how alive we both are. His face is pressed against my neck, his breath is falling evenly against my skin. I can kiss his temple and feel him relax a little in my arms. I grasp his other hand in mine and touch the wedding band on his ring finger; our little symbol of togetherness. He sighs, long and slow, and I can feel him stitching himself back together. 

"I love you," I whisper, the soft sound somehow filling up the apartment.

He holds me closer, more gently this time, his hand still grasping my heart possessively. His whispered response fills up the entire city: "I love you, too."

The aftermath might always be here with us, but we will always see each other through.


End file.
